


Ich spür' mich nicht mehr

by Ara (WalkUnseen)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode 49 Spoilers, Gore, Human Experimentation, The Crystal Stuff, Torture, Trent Ikithon’s POV, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkUnseen/pseuds/Ara
Summary: Bren is surprisingly the quietest of the three as Trent makes the preparatory incisions on his arms.Astrid had asked an endless stream of questions, curious, intent, honed in on the task and what he was doing. Eodwulf had asked why, asked what it would benefit, asked how long it would take, and if the crystals had to stay. They both screamed in the end anyways.But Bren just watches him work.





	Ich spür' mich nicht mehr

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a reversed lyric in the song “sugarbread” by soap&skin
> 
> We know pretty much nothing at all about how he really truly acts and thinks but here I am writing from his view point anyways. 
> 
> Trent isn't doing the crystal experiment in a basement or dungeon, because why not. I also don't know his true- _true_ motivations or why he does things so this is me guessing based on word of mouth. This is all just a quick little writing experiment for me. So probably not gonna be canon compliant, but here we go.

Bren is surprisingly the quietest of the three as Trent makes the preparatory incisions on his arms. 

Astrid had asked an endless stream of questions, curious, intent, honed in on the task and what he was doing. Eodwulf had asked why, asked what it would benefit, asked how long it would take, and if the crystals had to stay. They both screamed in the end anyways. 

But Bren just watches him work.

And while a part of Trent expects him to thrash in the bonds with each splitting weep of skin, Bren only stares. The boy emptily gazing at the slow trails of carmine snaking down each arm, the harsh plips breaking the silence as the drops shatter against stone. Trent makes another incision above the median nerve, feels the involuntary twitch of muscles beneath his fingers and moves on to the next one. Recalls the charts he's modified, meticulously annotated, used to map out the perfect placement for each crystal, and slices another line into flesh that spills over like all the others. And if he makes more cuts than necessary, Bren is none the wiser. 

A little experimentation never hurt anyone after all. 

Finished with the preparation he swipes the blood off the blade, setting it aside, adjusting it until it's perfectly aligned beside an array of carefully chosen specimens. Prestidigitates the crimson from his fingers with a flick of his wrist, reclaiming his quill and the opened tome beside the implements. Recording the current data while he idly listens to the markedly even breathing of Bren still strapped into the chair. 

_’Twenty-seven main array incisions. Seven extra adjacents (test rejection control). Thirty-four for placement in total. Subject prior to placement; stable. First round; ancillary. Nine total. Central point arrangement.’_

Trent looks to the small window, the sun dipping low, still providing some light in the small chamber, but dim enough he's already set up a light source for when it falls below the horizon. This procedure will take time after all and interruptions or pauses will not be tolerated or permitted. 

Bren says nothing when Trent stands and sets the tome aside, not even a word when he picks up the first of the crystals. A murky grey quartz, nearly marbled on the surface, barely the width of a pinky finger, cut and shined into a prism. _Main array; first position, right hand, between the pointer finger and thumb, purlicue._ The sharpened edges widen the started incision when he presses the quartz into it. It meets resistance and Bren’s hand flexes, the first hitching sounds of panic coming from the boy. Trent pins his restrained wrist further, keeping Bren's arm palm up and pushing the quartz further in. Blood beads and slides down the surface of the crystal and Trent grimaces when the red stains his fingers once more. A panicked whine leaves the boy and Trent’s eyes narrow at the sound. Bren had done so well with the knife after all and he's nearly disappointed by the bleating little cry.

He swipes his fingers clean once its done, tapping the crystal where it rests, nestled comfortably just under epidermis and tendons. Assured that it will stay in its new home for now. Bren writhes in the restraints, wide eyes rolling to the table that's scattered with the rest of the experiment. That was one of the smallest crystals after all and Trent can see the calculations behind frightened blue eyes as Bren looks up at him. There's the beginnings of tears collecting in them and Trent sincerely hopes they're involuntary. He trained Bren better than this. Pain is nothing in the pursuit of knowledge after all. And this is all necessity. 

Trent plucks up the next addition. _Thirty-three to go._

His hands are slicked with crimson by the time he gets to ten. Bren starts to scream when he gets to sixteen. The boy passes out when he gets to thirty-one. Trent records the results, assesses his condition, notes down which crystals are reacting, which aren't, and wakes him up with a harsh clout to his cheek. It takes a moment for Bren to rouse, the boy shaking his head, chin dipping a few times before he seems to hone in on the crystals embedded under his skin. A keening sound leaves him and Trent watches the boy's chest hitch, fingers curling and muscles straining against the restraints. He listens to him beg for them to be taken them out, for the experiment to stop. Hears Bren's voice crack and break, watches the slide of tears down his cheeks, and Trent says nothing. 

There's still more to go anyways. 

_Thirty-two_ ; Bren slams his head against the back of the chair until Trent's afraid he might crack his skull and ruin the test results. _Thirty-three_ ; the boy pulls at the restraints so hard Trent can see the crystals writhing under his skin, threatening to break free-- and that just won't do. He places a palm on Bren's forehead, takes away all of those tumultuous little inconveniences (pain and fear; such nagging annoyances) with a few whispered words. Bren falls slack, arms coated in splatters of crimson, the dull glow of the quartz beneath his flesh full of potential. He tilts the boy's chin up, satisfied with the docile glassiness to his eyes, the slow, numb blink and swarming confusion. 

Attention shifting back to the table as he plucks up the final crystal and moves to the last pre-prepared incision, frowning at how clotted and unsightly it's become. Bren whines, a low distressed sound peeling from his slackened lips. Trent ignores it, pressing the wound back open with his nails and inserting the quartz along the brachialis muscle. _Main array position twenty-seven: right ulnar nerve._ The stone slides easily under and between sinew, completing the circuit. 

A quick spell swipes the blood from Trent's hands once more and he steps back, inspecting the array. Noting the dullest points and the brightest ones, ruminating on the potential for rejection each crystal might have, and whether they will remain until the _actual_ testing phase. He turns to record his results and speculations in silence. The only sounds left in the chamber are the ragged breaths from Bren, the continued fall of blood onto the stone, and the quickened scratch of a hurried quill. All of it a quaint chorus that sings of _success_. 

“Now, that wasn't so bad was it?” Trent asks once he's finished detailing his observations, closing the tome with the sharp clap of parchment. 

Bren breathes heavily, trembling, sweat sliding down his brow and glistening on his skin, his eyelids fluttering. Bright blues, calculating blues, delirium-hazed blues; roll up to meet his and Trent's pleasantly surprised by the determination in them.  

“Of course not, _mein Herr_ ,” Bren huffs, steeling his jaw, hands flexing under the leather straps, the crystals shifting under his skin. 

Trent smiles, the infinitesimal quirk of his lips he gives when one of them shows particular promise. And Bren's always been a very promising one amongst the three. 

“Good.” He undoes the restraints, letting the boy leverage himself to his feet, but never offering a hand or aid. Resilience is important in a soldier-- and a specimen. “Perhaps next time we can even double the number, hm?” 

“Of course, _mein Herr_.” Bren nods, standing to a salute, arms rigid at his sides, blood still trailing down and dripping from his fingertips. Trent doesn't miss the tremble to his chin no matter how hard the boy tries to hide it.  “I look forward to it.”

And Bren probably does. Or he's convinced himself of it at the least. Trent's seen the way the boy perks up at the mention of strength, at the very idea of serving his Empire, heart and soul. Being a good little soldier. Keen-eyed at the thought of power under his beck and call.

All of it a blind, naive love for this Empire and everything it stands for. Devotion only a child could hold a candle too. That black and white tunnel vision the young are so daftly enticed by. _’All for Empire and all for King’_. What a foolish notion. He wants far more than what the Empire can ever offer him. But they at least let him make dogs for them, they let him keep his lab rats, they let him be and do as he pleases because he creates _results._

And many of them never even care to ask how.

“Go join the others.” He waves Bren off, turning back to his work.

The boy can clean up his own arms and pick out the crystals if he is so inclined to face the consequences for it. There is much extrapolation to do still and he has three new sets of insightful data he didn't have before.

And the _potential_ for so much more still at his fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> Trent definitely strikes me as a man who uses the ideals of an Empire to blind and hide behind.


End file.
